


Since The Day We Found You

by robotsfighting



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M, blaine introspection, hudmels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-13
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:14:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotsfighting/pseuds/robotsfighting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hummel-Hudson house feels like home to Blaine, in a way that his own house never has.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Since The Day We Found You

**Author's Note:**

> I recently explored this idea a little bit in a ficlet I wrote on Tumblr. ([Here!](http://robotsfighting.tumblr.com/post/18380220087/i-just-really-like-writing-about-blaine-and-finns)) That was from Finn's perspective, and the concept lingered. Then I heard the song [Bronte](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=le34ygtODfI) by Gotye, and it started raining, and the next thing I knew it was two days later, and I had 2300 words of fic, and the song had a playcount of 150. Because the theme _really_ wanted to be explored from Blaine's point of view.

Blaine let his hovering fingers brush softly against Kurt’s shoulder, and watched Kurt’s face change from the expressionless drift down into sleep to a small, pleased smile. He shifted closer, resting his head against Blaine’s chest, tangling their legs tighter. Blaine pressed a kiss against his hair, then trailed his fingers further, over the skin of Kurt’s arm where his sleeve ended, and down to his back; just light, wandering contact.

Downstairs, Carole was making stew. Blaine could hear the faint rattle of chopping and stirring, blended with the sound of the college basketball game Burt was watching in the living room. Carole had looked over his shoulder when she’d opened the door to let him in and said it was _that kind of day_ , with a smile, helping him out of his wet coat. _Kurt’s upstairs. I hope you guys didn’t have plans._

They didn’t have plans. It was just that kind of day, where Blaine would come over and they would do homework, or watch movies, or read, or just talk, forever, about anything. The rain couldn’t ruin that. The rain made it better, actually, sometimes, because sometimes it put a looseness into Kurt, this warmth that made him yawn and smile easily and pull Blaine down onto the bed to do nothing but lay together, fully dressed and drowsy and wonderful.

Blaine’s fingertips traced patterns onto Kurt’s back, and Kurt sighed in a gust of warm breath over Blaine’s skin.

Down the hall, Finn was playing a video game. Every few minutes there was a clatter of muffled gunfire, followed by a long silence, broken finally by more gunfire. Blaine couldn’t recognize it, despite the amount of time he’d spent over the last few weeks in Finn’s room, loudly killing aliens or Nazis while Kurt let out long-suffering sighs from behind the pages of a magazine, before finally giving in and taking the controller when they offered it, like it was some kind of sacrifice. Blaine knew Kurt liked playing with them, despite the dramatics. And Blaine liked how happy it made Finn to have Kurt willingly sitting in his room, killing zombies and cheering with them when they cleared levels.

The rain was pattering gently on Kurt’s window, and all of the lights were off. There was just the thin gray-blue rainlight from outside, reaching weakly over the floor and falling just short of the bed, leaving them cocooned in the half-dark, warm against each other. Kurt’s arm slipped around Blaine’s waist, his hand settling against the small of Blaine’s back, and he tucked his face against Blaine’s shoulder, his eyes closed. The movement enveloped Blaine in him, the feeling of Kurt’s long limbs heavy against his, the quiet sound of his slowing breaths – the smell of him, always different, today something light and understated and natural, over the organic smell of _him_ , always lingering under the shampoo or the cream or the cologne. 

Blaine’s fingers still traveled in repetitive patterns over the thin fabric of Kurt’s shirt, and he closed his eyes, breathing everything in.

Blaine loved this, everything about this. Carole opening the door for him with that smile, pleased to see him standing there on the porch. She said every time that he should just walk in without knocking, that he was welcome there whenever he liked. When she wasn’t home, he did that. He just slipped inside, and toed off his shoes in the foyer, and Burt would call a gruff greeting from wherever he was and say that Kurt was upstairs, _door open, you know the drill, kid_. Or Finn would walk by him on the way up to his room and tell him that Kurt was in the middle of making dinner, _if you want to help or whatever, he won’t let me in there._ But when Carole’s car was in the driveway, Blaine liked to knock, because she would fuss over him, with that smile, and take his coat, and compliment his cardigan, and happily tell him about her day when he asked. He would linger, and laugh when she eventually gave him a little push in whatever direction Kurt lay.

He liked when Burt was home and Kurt was making dinner, because Blaine was usually hopeless at the cooking process after the chopping-things stage was over, and Kurt would kick him out of the kitchen to entertain himself. He would wander into the living room, and Burt would look over his shoulder on the couch and ask if Blaine wanted to watch the game, whichever season it was – or the news, or whatever was on, and Blaine would sit down. They would talk -- scores, mostly, or their team’s chances, or glee, or school. Kurt’s dad was strangely easy to talk to, given the idea he’d grown up with, that dating meant fathers with shotguns. There was still a little of that (Burt was still sort of intimidating in the shotgun way), but it was nice. 

Sometimes when Kurt was in the kitchen, Finn would come downstairs with his homework and ask for help, and Kurt would roll his eyes and keep chopping peppers or sautéing mushrooms, so Blaine would wash his hands and wander over to the breakfast table to stand over Finn’s shoulder. Finn had a lot of trouble with math, but he said that Blaine was good at explaining things without making him feel like an idiot (with a glance at Kurt, who would ignore him). Eventually he started to forego asking Kurt at all, and just dump his pile of papers onto the table and drag Blaine over. And Blaine enjoyed it, because teaching Finn was fun, and Kurt would smile quietly to himself at whatever ridiculous method Blaine was using to explain the quadratic equation while he was puttering around on the other side of the room. Blaine always tried to make him laugh, catching him by surprise, because he loved that sound when Kurt didn’t have time to temper it.

But he loved this the most. He loved being close to Kurt, in the quiet, with the shadows of the raindrops against the window cast on the rug, elongated and strange. He loved Kurt’s arms around him, holding on, and Kurt drifting to sleep, comfortable and safe enough to relax that much. He loved the knowledge that he was the only person who had ever seen Kurt like this besides his family. It was a trust that made him feel loved, and safe. It made him feel -- _chosen_. Wanted. Worthy. Nothing, _nothing_ had ever made him feel so worthy as being with Kurt, alone, and quiet, and open. The first time they had been together, opening night of the musical, was this terrifying, incredible revelation to him. _I was so proud to be with you._ And then that trust, and all of the care and gentleness and whispering, broken _love love love_ , with nothing between them but their breath. The thought of it still made Blaine glow, silent and content and beautifully, perfectly happy, the way he had never been before. He had never been so happy.

“You’re thinking very loudly,” Kurt said, with his lips pressed against the _v_ of skin at Blaine’s collar. He sounded half-asleep, and it made Blaine smile, tilting his head to rest against Kurt’s.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll shut up.”

Kurt shifted his arm to drag Blaine’s shirt up and press his warm palm against the bared skin of his back. It made Blaine hum into Kurt’s hair, and he felt Kurt’s slow grin in response, dragging his lips wider. “No,” Kurt mumbled, shifting closer. “What are you thinking about?”

Blaine opened his eyes. Over the dark nest of Kurt’s hair, he could see the window, with its cool light growing dimmer as evening came, a soft blur. He let out a breath that emptied his lungs. “How much this place feels like home.”

That wasn’t what Kurt was expecting. Blaine could tell, because he paused for a moment, perfectly still in Blaine’s arms. Blaine could almost hear the gears working in Kurt’s head, dragging him back up from sleep, and he almost felt guilty about it, until Kurt’s fingers swept wide against his back in a way that was just as comforting as Kurt probably thought it would be. Blaine sighed again, and let his head fall against the pillow when Kurt drew away, to be able to see Blaine’s face. “I’m glad,” he said. There was a little lingering confusion and concern around the edges of his eyes, his eyebrows tipped slightly together, but he said it like he honestly meant it.

Blaine watched him, feeling like a slow wave was breaking over him. “Really?” he asked, quiet.

Kurt’s mouth twitched with a smile. “Of course.”

Blaine took a breath, letting his eyes drift away from Kurt’s. He drew his hand back to cup gently at Kurt’s elbow, and watched the difference of their skin tones layered against each other in the dull light. “My house isn’t like this,” he murmured. “You know. You’ve been there.” There wasn’t ever really a sign of life in Blaine’s house. It was decorated and not lived in, like a display home. Kurt’s hand swept again against Blaine’s back, and Blaine leaned into it, closing his eyes. “Your family makes me feel like I belong somewhere. You make me feel--” He opened his eyes, and Kurt met them easily, and Blaine didn’t actually have words positive enough. There didn’t exist words good enough, or big enough. So instead, Blaine leaned across the space between them and kissed him, soft, with as much of that feeling as he could pass through it. 

Kurt hummed into the kiss for a moment, and broke it with a smile. He tightened his arm around Blaine’s waist, settling further into the pillow under his head, looking pleased. “I’m glad there’s somewhere you can go.”

Blaine smiled faintly, squeezing his fingers lightly around Kurt’s elbow. “I doubt your parents will appreciate me hanging around after you move to New York.”

Kurt snorted, rolling his eyes. “Are you kidding me? My dad’s going to have the worst case of Empty Nest Syndrome in history. Except for maybe Carole’s.” He paused, his voice getting softer. “They’d probably be happy to have someone around who they could tell to turn down the music and stop tracking mud through the house.”

Blaine settled closer, letting his head rest against Kurt’s chest, closing his eyes. It was a nice thought. It was a _really_ nice thought, but it wasn’t real. Blaine was going to lose this when Kurt went away. He was going to lose a lot of things, all at once. It was still distant, but it was there, already reaching out to him, cold and sad. He turned his face against Kurt’s chest, with his arm tightening around his waist, holding on.

“You really should,” Kurt murmured, after a long moment of silence. Blaine didn’t say anything, and he continued. “You should come around, I mean.” His voice was thoughtful, far away. “Friday night dinners. I’ll want to know how my dad’s doing, and they really like you. They’ll be happy you’re there.”

Blaine pulled back slightly, and looked up at Kurt, blinking. “Really?” he asked, genuinely surprised.

Kurt smirked at him. “Yes,” he said. Then, “Actually, I’m going to call and _force_ you to go, at least sometimes. Someone has to keep me informed. My dad’s never been good at telling me things on the phone. And Carole’s too loyal.”

Blaine laughed. It was bright, and surprised out of him. He shook his head, settling back against him. “You don’t have to do that,” he murmured, with a soft smile. “I’ll be fine. And it won’t be the same without you, anyway.”

He felt Kurt shrug, a little roll of his shoulders, and then Kurt’s fingers carded softly through the hair and the base of Blaine's neck, repetitive and lulling. “I really do want you to check on him. And I want them to check on you, too. I want there to still be somewhere you can go.”

Blaine closed his eyes, warmed down to his core at the care in Kurt’s voice. He buried himself closer. “I’ll come around sometimes,” he murmured. “I promise.”

“Good,” Kurt said, softly. His fingers kept carding through the loose curls at Blaine’s neck, making Blaine drift with the pattern, slow and careful. 

It was a year. One year, with occasional dinners based on mutual spying and need, and that worked for Blaine, for some reason. And there were still six months of this to look forward to: laying loose and warm and happy with Kurt, listening to the sound of Finn down the hall, and Carole and Burt downstairs, and the familiar settling of this house around them. There was still going to be so much more of this. And then, New York. 

Kurt’s fingers began to slow, and drift, and settle on Blaine’s neck, with Kurt’s breath evening into the soft roll of his chest under Blaine’s cheek. Blaine was drifting down, too, with the quiet and the dark and the comforting patter of rain on glass. Sleep was starting to curl around him, calm and deep.

One year, and then New York. Subways and Central Park, and singing, and harmony, bickering, sweetness, warmth. The things Blaine always wanted, and never had until now. One year, six months, until home was the place where Blaine came back to every single day.

He fell asleep with that idea inside of him, perfect and bright. One day, _so soon_ , home would be the place where Blaine lived.


End file.
